


Nemesis

by aqhrodites



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Horror, Eichen | Echo House, Horror, I think I liked The Nogitsune too much, Mental Institutions, Psychological Horror, Psychological Torture, Season 3 Finale, and it has monsters and demons that dance and play in your mind, and let's be real those promos all gave off bad vibes, because I like crying, but it's not as bad as I'm making it seem, it's not nice, season 3b, this is how I thought season 3b was going to end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 12:00:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7573273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aqhrodites/pseuds/aqhrodites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Stiles bolts awake, screaming. It had happened, he had that same dream—no, <b>nightmare</b>—again. There was blood everywhere, on the walls, on their clothes, on his hands.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>The nurses are scrambling at his sides, pressing freezing, rubber-clad fingers to his skin. And his gown is ripped open. Stiles cowers, feeling the restraints binding his wrists to the bed. The nurses' eyes run right over him, ignoring him. He looks across the room and sees the demons again. The two dark figures stood—one shorter, the other with gauze around its head.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Stiles pales, and he screams.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nemesis

**Author's Note:**

> This is a oneshot I wrote this right before the episode “Riddled” aired, literally the day before. So this isn’t the universe where Stiles has dementia.
> 
> This is also posted on my [tumblr](http://aqhrodites.tumblr.com/).

 

* * *

 

Stiles bolted upright, sweating and screaming. The white sheets thrashing furiously as his feet kicking; the sound wrenched from his throat so ugly and harsh that his voice ran out seconds later and all he was left was to shout out hot air.  
Stiles screamed, tears streaming down his face.

It had happened again. It was another dream just like last night and the night before that and the night before that and the night before that…

And there was blood. There was so, so much blood that he wanted to puke. It was everywhere—on the floor, on the walls, on their clothes…it was on his hands. So, so much— _oh god_.

Stiles screamed.

Strong arms wrapped around him, keeping him still and holding him down, and slowly he began to calm to his father’s voice reassuring repetitively. This wasn’t the first time this has happened. No, this was the third—fifth—twenty-seventh? And it had grown on his father, waring him down and withering and yet, he still held his flailing son down in the hold that had soothed Stiles since a young age.

Stiles’ yelling progressively  lessened until he sat stock still. And then he burst into tears.

He could still feel it, the fear that held with frigid, iron grip and hovered like a smothering cloud; it was like being thrown in a void where it sucked you in, refusing to give, and the weight of the _guilt_ of it all was like literal boulder on his shoulders.

And he could still see the nightmarish visions from his dreams that looped over and over like a broken film. He had seen the deformed, knife-sharp fangs they bared as their eyes stared vacant and _dead_ up to the dark tile ceiling. He knew that it all wasn’t real, though—neither of the werewolves he had seen in his dreams had their normal fangs—but still, it had been _his friends_. Allison, Isaac, Lydia, and Scott, even Ethan, Derek, and Aiden had lied there on the chilly floor, ripped, deformed, limbs tangled, and some dismembered on the tile.

And there had been blood, so much blood…

Stiles blinked and tried to recollect his bearings, leaning into his father’s warm hold.

It was nighttime outside, but the only indicator was the time on his father’s wristwatch. There were no windows and the tray beside his bed still hadn’t been touched and the food had gone cold. The tray was adjacent a vase of wilting lilies and gerbera daisies that should have been watered days ago; seven dried, shriveled petals had fallen to the tray of bland food.

The bedsheets were dry, this time, and the blankets were warm, crisp, sterile—this bed wasn’t his.

Stiles jerked, attempting to sit up again. But his wrists held him back, refusing to move forward, and he only managed to get to a semi-sitting position. He began to panic again when he saw his wrists were still cuffed to the side railing.

The twitching, impulsive need to scratch at himself again washed over his senses like a wave.

This time, in actual reality and not a dream-like state, Stiles _did_ scream—and quite loudly. The feeling of his father was now gone, evaporating back into his subconscious.

Many in the hospital and out in the hall froze at hearing the bloodcurdling scream bouncing off the walls. Three nurses nearby dropped what they were doing and rushed in as fast as they could.

“It was the girl in darkness,” Stiles’ lips would quiver for the umpteenth time after he’d calmed, pulse still speeding away and blinking. “Nemesis is coming,” he’d gasp and begin to rock back and forth as another nameless nurse checked his temperature, his vital signs, his sanity. Stiles’ fidgeting had worsened too. So had his itching and impulsiveness.

His veins would protrude on his throat and temple from stress.

His father would have been watching through the window. He _had_ been, before, but he had been pulled away for work, having needed to put in more hours but promised that he would continue to visit even though Stiles’ constant…episodes were becoming too much to bare for the poor sheriff.

Stiles’ had-been friends were the same. It had begun with Derek—he’d been the first to leave when Stiles experienced his first seizure. Then it had been Isaac, the twins, and then Lydia. _That_ had hurt. Scott had been the last to leave him, to abandon him, and Stiles hadn’t even known. All that was left was a DVD movie and an “I’M SORRY. GET BETTER SOON.” scribbled on a torn page of a magazine while Stiles had been sedated.

That was when he began to completely lose it.

As his yelling continued, the nurses rushed into the room. Stiles wasn’t sure how many there were, exactly—all he could tell was that his paper gown was being ripped open and cold stethoscopes and an array of fingers pressed to his skin. He was more focused on the dark, spectral figure standing against the wall across the room, anyway.

He tried to scoot backwards as if that would put more distance between his bed and the monster, and that he could escape the leather restraints bounding him, and as if it could really save him. His wrists pulled at the leather cuffs, destroying the scabs that were beginning to heal and turning his blanched pale skin a bright, delicious red.

Cold, rubber-clad fingers prodded his body. No matter how much he writhing, how much he tried to convince them that he was fine, to try and tell them of the figure that constantly followed him, they never listened. Whenever he tried to get away, they were somehow much stronger, quicker, and sometimes he’d feel a prick in his arm and the world would turn hazy.

“Please,” he cowarded to a woman at his right.

She shown a bright light into his eye. Instictively, his pupils shrunk significantly and the circles under his eyes appear to have gotten worse, she observed. His eyes seemed to have sunken deeper into his skull as well. He looked the personification of “unwell” aided with pandemonium.

“You have to let me out,” Stiles’ voice croaked, failing him after straining it so often.

The woman simply looked Stiles over and began speaking to one of the male nurses in the room, her eyes passing over the patient like he was an unflattering entrée piece.

Stiles turned to the man at his left tending to the IV bag. “You have to see them. Th-they’re right there. They’re right _there_!”

The man merely placed a hand on Stiles’ forehead and forced his head back to the pillows.

“It’s okay, Stiles,” the third reassured, standing at the teen’s feet, where he was doing something to Stiles’ ankles. At least this one had a comforting smile to give. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“No, no…no, no, no, no, no…..” Stiles muttered.

The man at his left thumped the IV bag.

Stiles’ eyes rolled, and suddenly he was becoming quite drowsy.

When he looked up towards the tenebrous figure against the whitewashed walls, he saw that another had joined its side, this one taller and its head bowed. This time, Stiles thrashed violently.

“ _NO NO NO NO NO NO_!!”

He didn’t know this one. This was a new monster.

His sudden thrashing to scoot backwards had caught the nurses off guard. When they snapped out of their momentary shock, the three struggled to get the teen under control, two literally holding him down while the third fumbled for a syringe needle.

The second demon against the wall began slowly raising its head, and a fresh wave of tears began cascading down the young Stilinski’s cheeks.

The first figure, Lyssa—he’d known her, a deceased childhood friend of his who recently began haunting him—showed one of her hideous, abnormally wide, and sinister smiles. Though she appeared no younger than twelve, that made no difference to the pockmarks and burns on her dirty, gray, dead skin. And it still struck fear into his heart.

The second monster lifted its head and Stiles froze, completely taken by fear.

The nurses eyed him questionably. They looked from his suddenly whitened face to the point he was staring at. All they saw was a normal, painted wall.

Stiles watched Lyssa’s face twitch supernaturally and her dead lips whispered, “Nemesis is here.” It was faint and sounded just as that of a child’s, but chilled the air.

Nemesis, that name; she had been whispering it to him for a weeks—when he slept, when he was awake, when he was with friends, during lacrosse practice. At times she’d call it to him, sometimes she’d talk as if it were a second person.

Nemesis.

Nemesis.

She’d written it on his bedroom wall, an invisible script only he could see until he was now afraid to go home.

She’d drawn it on the bathroom mirror under his head where his shoulders would be, almost like a name plate.

The more bodies that piled up in Beacon Hills, the more she’d chant it like a mantra, twist her face to an impossible angle—ninety degrees seemed her favourite. She’d appear behind his father during breakfast, threatening others’ wellbeing and sanity. She said that Nemesis is coming for him.

Nemesis.

Nemesis.

Nemesis.

She whispered it in his ear during lectures, he’d hear it in the trees, on the wind; he began to see what Lydia felt like, he guessed about hearing voices, but she denied it, saying her episodes were never this continuous or extreme. Along with the period he was illiterate still remembered and fresh in his friends’ minds, Lydia was the first to suggest that something else was going on with him that was more abnormal than their usual.

And then Stiles rediscovered his mother’s diary. It was a personal journal he found his father had kept tucked away when Stiles went snooping after declining to release information about the Darach’s virgin sacrifices. His mother had written about seeing the same small Greek child soon after the funeral. Claudia Stilinski had began going crazy then, when the child reappeared. Stiles had found the diary about a year ago, the apparitions beginning three months later.

Whenever Stiles would see the name, whether it be etched into wallpaper or written in blood on his school notes, whenever he’d blink,  _Nemesis_ was suddenly gone with no trace of it ever having been.

He tried telling Scott once, after Lydia, but the werewolf had brushed it off as Stiles was just “needing some sleep,” that he “needed to calm down, was stressed out,” and other bullshit. Stiles had explained that _that was_ the reason he dismissed the idea and was afraid to go to close his eyes.

But he had tried to sleep in the beginning—and it was worst than when he was awake, because dreams can be even more terrifying than reality.

_“Darkness is coming.”_

The girl had said that “he” would come and destroy them all; that Nemesis will soon be upon us; that Nemesis is coming. That Nemesis had risen the day Stiles, Scott, and Allison cheated death.

_“There will a sorta…darkness around your hearts… You won’t be the same.”_

Nemesis.

Nemesis.

Nemesis.

Nemesis.

Nemesis.

Nemesis.

Stiles’ eyes widened, watching the ends of his white bedsheets. The dead girl raised an injured, gashed finger to her cracked lips in a shush motion and whispered.

“Stiles. … _Stiles_!” one of the nurses called him but he didn’t hear.

The girl before him was so _ugly_ and vile that it sent chills down his spine. Luckily, her face was hidden behind her dirty, murky, tangled hair, but her limbs were twisted and gangly and her formal dress she had been buried in was a great contrast.

She shushed him, the ends of her dead lips partially visible behind her hair that reached to her upper back.

The second figure—Nemesis—raised it’s head.

Stiles swallowed; his entire body was drenched in a cold sweat. He was shaking.

The entire of Nemesis’ head was wrapped in layer after layer of dirty gauze, and Stiles focused on the only openings there were—where its jagged teeth shown through like coal daggers, and the two obsidian dots that were its eyes.

A scream was on the edge of Stiles’ tongue.

 _“Your dog friends can’t help you,”_ Lyssa had scoffed at him once, some time ago in the dead of night and in his own bedroom. _“Man fall prey to their own minds time and time and time and time again…”_

Stiles’ lip quivered, looking much like a frightened child. He shook his head, silently pleading for them to go away, and a tear ran down his nose.

The nurses near him were nonexistent and completely from his mind. In fact, in his eyes, they were gone and it was just him and the two monsters in the room.

In any other circumstance, Stiles would have scolded himself on how pitiful he must have looked, having liquid dribbling from his eyes, nose, and mouth, and sniffling, gasping. But now, all that he could do was beg for his life, his sanity, though words escaped him now.

He didn’t want to blink either because he knew if he did, things would only grow worse.

But he did.

And instantly Nemesis was upon him, wrapping its hands around Stiles’ throat. And Lyssa was beside him on the bed, her pale, dead eyes watching Stiles in glee. And though he didn’t want to, Stiles looked, and saw that the face that belonged to Nemesis was none other than his own, some twisted, messed up funhouse mirror version of himself in every sense of the way, stared down at him with an unnaturally wide, jagged, demonic grin.

The nurses in the room flailed. Buttons were pushed, machines bleeped like crazy, and one dashed into the hallway to call for the doctor that was already rushing their way.

The two dark figures remained on Stiles’ chest—literally—and Nemesis’ fists weren’t giving. Stiles wishes his wrists weren’t bound. He chokes on air, gulping air that was rapidly escaping him.

Electric pulses were shocked through Stiles’ body. Hands pressed on his temples, on his chest, finger-snapping in his face. He was hooked up to another machine for breathing, and Nemesis’ hands were quickly closing the gap between each other.

Stiles wanted to scream, but his voice was gone as his windpipes were being crushed. His mouth was gaping, and it was like his body just _couldn’t move_ and he was stuck to watch these two demons smiling on top of him.

And then Nemesis let out what sounded like a chuckle that was way, way too close to the sound of Stiles’ own voice.

All the while, the teen’s body continued convulsing violently under the white sheets.

Monitors’ beeping slowed, the nurses rushed, and the doctor worked.

Nemesis smiled darkly, its wrists giving a quick flick and squeeze, and Stiles’ eyes turned up, showing white.

Then a nurse put her hand out to the doctor who was on her way to rush for more help.

The monitor showed a flatline.

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Lyssa is the name of the greek goddess of raging fury and madness.
> 
> Comment please. Was this was too much? This oneshot is also posted on my [tumblr here](http://aqhrodites.tumblr.com/).


End file.
